Fire
by HaneGaNai
Summary: Each was like a moth, each was like fire and they struggled and fought and craved as much as they could.


**Title**: Fire

**Pairing**: RenIchi

**Genre**: Romance/General

**Rating**: PG-13?

**Words**: 915

**For**: zealot1138. Happy Birthday!!! I hope you'll like it at least a bit.

**Warnings**: BL?; lame ending;

**A/N**: It was supposed to be something else, but I could make it work =( I think too much time passed since my last RenIchi fic. I lost my touch.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Bleach or any of the characters.

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Once again his Zanpakutou flew up into the sky with the white strap fluttering madly reflecting the bright sickle of the moon before crashing down and spilling crimson all over the sidewalk. His job was done – for the day at least. He didn't even have time to say goodbye to his classmates before his Shinigami badge went off and one Hollow after another appeared just waiting for him to slay. They were all small fry, but the great amount of them had Zangetsu weighting unpleasantly on his shoulder, his tattered Shinigami robes sticking to his sweat and blood-covered body and the wound on his back burning with pain.

The sun long ago gave in way to the moon and now only its white silhouette and the countless stars watched over him as Ichigo headed back home. The chilly wind made his unruly orange mane dance and a shiver run through his hot body. He was thankful for the breeze of fresh, cool air even though his body protested.

He enjoyed the cold when he could feel every touch of wind on his heated skin, when his teeth clinked together and his breath came out in shaky, uneven gasps . He didn't take up speed, didn't run though it'd bring back heat, he'd be back home faster. No. He'd just walk home slowly, enjoying the night when it was too late for people to be still up and yet too early for them to be already awake unwilling to welcome a new day crowded with people, noise, fights and blood.

He collected his body form the nearby bushes and stretched in a feline-like way with several loud pops. He was numb from the cold barely able to move his fingers and still – he wouldn't complain. Because once he got back to his room and slipped under the covers a loud yelp and a curse would welcome him before his redheaded lover pulled him close into a warm embrace complaining about his cold feet.

He liked getting back warmth much more than the numbness brought by the cold. And honestly who wouldn't if it meant he'd get to be cradled by a much larger body without calling it cuddling and hurting your manly pride.

There were also nights, when he didn't feel like going home at all, when he stayed out late feeling too bloodied, dirtied to face his little sisters, his martial-arts fixated dad or Renji, even if the redhead with his years of experience was sure to understand whatever Ichigo was going through. He just sat there, perched on a roof, and watched as the night became day, as the starts vanished from the sky uncaring of how cold it was, how he couldn't feel his hands.

Until he'd feel a presence beside him as a very familiar figure would join him on the roof and all of a sudden the dawn wouldn't be so cold, so lonely, so in pain.

They would get back home without uttering a single word shed their uniforms sometimes hurriedly in a rush to feel skin on skin and sometimes slowly, leisurely, taking their time. Yet it was always about body heat, about seeking warmth, about blending into one, melting. It was all about the fire in the tangle of sheets and limbs and words never said.

Neither of them was good with words, neither needed them. They preferred for their actions, their bodies to do the talking. Who cared about things like love and like and lust when their reiatsu was so tightly bound that there was no way to tell who it belonged to, where one began and ended the other.

In was in their similarities and differences. They were good together and then they clashed and it was hot again, and it burned.

It scorched him and Ichigo knew he wasn't the only one enjoying the burn marks.

What was the point of being a perfect match? It was all in the flaws, the differences, the heat of the fights, the rumpled bed sheets and make-up sex. Where was the fun if there was no risk?

Not all could be left unsaid, of course, and sometimes they ended up stuttering and blushing and laughing and with a black eye as the fight started over again before turning into a different battle. A battle of lips and hands and moans and names called out into the night, into the light of a new day.

Ichigo knew that at times they were both a bit too proud for their own good, but he would change, they could change because they cared, because they felt and acted upon it. It was their instincts that brought them together, so it would be their instincts that would keep them intact.

He liked their relationship as it was - loud and furious and so passionate it burned. So what if they still bickered and called each other names? So what is they'd rather reason with their fists than talk things over? It gave them the pleasant buzz of adrenalin they both needed so much. It gave them fire.

Each was like a moth, each was like fire and they struggled and fought and craved as much as they could.

And as he woke up the next morning with his head on a broad chest and strong arms wrapped around his waist Ichigo decided that he liked it that way. Because all in all they had a pretty good thing going.


End file.
